Property of Remus Lupin
by GreyPurpleBlack
Summary: Upon finding a blank leatherbound book in his flat, Remus Lupin carefully sets it on his bookshelf but doesn't intend to use it. However, after the events of October 31, 1981, he knows that only the paper won't judge him now.
1. November 1st, 1981

_Note: I do not own any plotline, character, or object within the Harry Potter series. Reviews are always appreciated. The grammar of this narrative will occasionally have intentional mistakes. I use a mixture of British and American slang. Finally, this story follows canon. This is an exploration into the emotions of a tormented but little-represented character in the series. It is not a fluffy, "I wish this had happened" sort of fic._

_This is the first chapter of_ Property of Remus Lupin _and I hope you enjoy._

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><p><strong>November 1st, 1981<strong>

So much has happened.

James and Lily are dead—Voldemort's handiwork, of course. Sirius is in Azkaban, charged with the murder of Peter and twelve Muggles. Harry is alive.

The last is the most remarkable.

But . . . James and Lily . . .

James and Lily are dead. James and Lily Potter are dead. James Potter and Lily Evans are **dead**.

No matter how I say it, I just can't believe it.

Sirius was supposed to be their Secret Keeper, wasn't he? But the idea that Sirius betrayed James and Lily to Voldemort . . . how could he?

I don't doubt that Peter is dead. I don't doubt that Sirius killed him. The evidence tells me not to doubt that Sirius betrayed James and Lily as well, but the very idea hurts.

Somehow, when Voldemort came to Godric's Hollow, when he came to kill Harry, when James and Lily died to protect their son as all knew they would do if necessary, he failed. Harry is alive. The Boy Who Lived, they're calling him. He survived the Killing Curse, the only person ever to do so, and he's only one year old.

Remarkable.

Then again, any son of James and Lily Potter was bound to have extraordinary talent.

Dumbledore and Hagrid delivered Harry to Lily's sister this morning. Will I ever see him again? The son of my now dead best friend is barred from me as well.

Two of my best friends are dead; the third is responsible. The first's son is alienated from the Wizarding world.

How did this happen?

How could Sirius do this to us?


	2. November 2nd, 1981

_This is the second chapter of _Property of Remus Lupin _and I hope you enjoy._

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><p><strong>November 2nd, 1981<strong>

Sent to Azkaban without trial. I suppose that means the Ministry has decided Sirius's guilt, but he decided his fate on Halloween.

In Hogwarts, that was a day of celebration. That was the day each year that we were allowed a prank, so long as it didn't hurt anyone—not that we would have intentionally hurt anyone. None of us was truly malicious. (I can't say that anymore.)

Is that what this was, Sirius? A prank to you? Halloween was the day for our biggest pranks; was this all a practical joke gone wrong? Merlin, Sirius, are you really as mental as we joked you were?

It hurts me to think that my friend, practically my brother, betrayed us. My whole being rebels against the idea. However, the evidence is undeniable. The earthquake of proof has shaken me to the core, so that even though I wish I could defend him, my brain has acknowledged the strong possibility of his guilt. I still find myself making excuses for him, and it still pains me to consider his treachery.

I haven't accepted the possibility, but I've acknowledged it.

**James . . . James, I don't know how to tell you this, but we can't trust Sirius anymore. You see, Prongs, there is someone among us who is feeding information to Voldemort, and for your safety, I tell you that I suspect Sirius.**

Months ago I should have told James that, as soon as the thought had formed. I was too scared, too uncertain, too incredulous of my instinct to believe it.

The Wizengamot doesn't convict cowards like me. I wouldn't even get a trial, but . . .

My guilt is certain.


	3. November 3rd, 1981

_This is the third chapter of _Property of Remus Lupin _and I hope you enjoy._

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><p><strong>November 3rd, 1981<strong>

Alice and Frank are gone: Bellatrix Lestrange tortured them into insanity.

In many ways, that's worse than death.

Their poor boy . . . what was his name? Noah? Nathan? Nigel? Blast my memory . . . In any case, their boy will only know this skewered version of his parents. He will never know how brave, kind, and strong they were. He will never know the extents of their love for him. He will never be able to ask them for advice nor hear their lectures nor play Quidditch with them.

Neither will Harry.

Maybe the Longbottoms' boy will be worse off, though. Frank's mum is still alive, and that woman is a true Gryffindor: there's no doubt that she will visit her son and daughter-in-law in St. Mungo's, and surely she will take the boy with her. Visiting his delusional parents in the hospital on a regular basis will not be good for the boy. His parents won't seem like his parents, only like strangers.

A fate worse than death.

It was Sirius's cousin who did it. Sirius detested his family . . . yet he's now under arrest for murder. In the end, he's just like them? It's nonsensical . . . is everything Sirius said a lie? Maybe he didn't hate his family; maybe he was to be a spy. How, then, could he be in Gryffindor?

Perhaps the Sorting Hat is not infallible.


	4. November 10th, 1981

_This is the fourth chapter of_ Property of Remus Lupin _and I hope you enjoy._

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><p><strong>November 10th, 1981<strong>

The missing are now the dead, the tortured, or the found. Or, of course, the still missing. Missing and presumed dead.

The Aurors have rounded up most of the Death Eaters by now. Witches and wizards everywhere rejoice, for the Dark Lord has been defeated, and his followers have been captured. They praise Harry like a god, they thank Merlin for the end, they go about their lives happily now, without fear, with peace, with confidence.

No one spares a thought for James and Lily. If they do, perhaps they brush it off, thinking, "That is simply the sacrifice for peace." That makes it sound unavoidable: "They would have died anyway, for their deaths were needed for our peace."

No one spares a thought for the dead.

Lily Evans, James Potter, Peter Pettigrew, Marlene McKinnon, Gideon and Fabian Prewett, Caradoc Dearborn, Benji Fenwick, Dorcas Meadowes. They are all dead. Alice and Frank Longbottom, as good as dead. All the dead Aurors, all the Ministry workers tortured and killed for information, everyone kidnapped for sadistic fun, all the Muggles and "Mudbloods" captured for sport.

No one is sparing a thought for them.

Muggles have the courtesy to recognize their dead, to celebrate their lives, to mourn their deaths. Muggles erect monuments in memory of their dead, and what do we do? We get drunk off firewhiskey and butterbeers, capture the enemy, and party, celebrate, cheer, because our tormentor is dead.

I refuse to ignore them.

This war has changed me, and I will not forget those who contributed to our victory. I will not forget those who gave their lives so that others could live.

They all died with the spirit of Gryffindor, and I will not ignore such bravery.

Why does the world?


	5. January 15th, 1982

_Since Microsoft Word features don't completely transfer, the four number signs represent 1981 with "Double Strikethrough" (multiple lines through it)._

_This is the fifth chapter of_ Property of Remus Lupin _and I hope you enjoy._

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><p><strong>January 15th, #### 1982<strong>

I still can't get the date right, two weeks into the new year. Lily always used to tease me about that. "Come on, Remus, you can't take a full month to figure out we're in a different year! It takes me two days and I'm adjusted!"

Smashing for you, Lily, but I'm afraid it takes me a bit longer. After all, does the date really matter? First try or second, I'll get it right.

To think we wasted our time with such meaningless rubbish.

There was so much she needed to know, so much I could have told her, if we hadn't wasted the time away with frivolous jokes and idle chatter. Time. That's all I want now. More time with Lily, with James, with James and Lily, with Peter . . . and with Sirius.

With more time, I could tell them all of what they needed to know. Lily, you look stunning, but your personality far outshines your lovely face. James, your friendship saved me; I am forever in your debt. James, Lily, the two of you need to get a room. Peter, my friend, I am lucky to call you such, and I hope I have been a sufficient friend for you.

Sirius, you inspire me so often to be my best and not to let others' opinions sway my ambitions, and we both know I'll probably always need that.

Sirius, I think you're the traitor; I think you're the one giving information to Voldemort.

Sirius, I think I should be the Secret Keeper instead.

Sirius, I won't forgive you for killing James.

Sirius, Lily died for her son, your godson. Are you happy now that you've destroyed a family? Not just a family. **Our** family.

Sirius, why did you have to take Peter too?

Sirius . . .

Sirius, why?

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><p><em>"Oh, how could you do it? Oh, I, I never saw it coming. Oh, oh, I need an ending, so why can't you stay just long enough to <em>explain_?" Cheers to you if you get the reference._


	6. January 30th, 1982

January 30th, 1982

Dearest Lily,

Happy birthday! I hope this owl gets to you in time—although I am writing this at six P.M., I know how hectic the nights are for you lot!

So you're another year older, Miss Evans. Congratulations. Oh, Merlin, what an accomplishment that is in this war, eh? Living another full year is a true blessing, my dear Lily!

What did James finally decide upon for a present? Sweet Merlin, was he frantic. Sirius nearly jinxed him just to knock some sense into the poor man. You know, I'd thought that when you got married, he would calm down slightly and realize that he doesn't have to impress you to make you stay anymore, but obviously that logic didn't occur to him at all.

Twenty-two, married, with children. Okay, okay, I know you only have one son, but don't forget that you have Sirius, too. He might as well be a child! And there's me and Peter, and, Merlin, don't forget James, Lily. Anyway, married with children, that's great! (Or, from Sirius's standpoint, bloody stupid, but that's our Padfoot, eh?) How is the little monster, by the way? Oh, and how is Harry, too? (I know you laughed, Lily, so don't tell me later that it's horrible to make fun of Sirius so!)

Joking aside, I hope you enjoy your gift. It took me ages to decide on the perfect thing—something James wouldn't want to steal and something Harry-proof.

I'm sorry not to have kept in touch, but between searching for a present, work for the Order, and finding any job that'll take me, it's been hectic. Hopefully I'll be able to see you soon, and take care of yourselves! Be careful.

Love,

_Remus_

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><p><em>The gift was a (obviously highly advanced) potions book that needs a special charm to be unlocked. (Potions make it James-proof; the charm makes it Harry-proof.)<br>_


	7. January 31st, 1982

_This is the seventh chapter of _Property of Remus Lupin _and I hope you enjoy._

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><p><strong>January 31st, 1982<strong>

I know it wasn't healthy.

I had to pretend, just for her birthday, that they were alive and well. I needed one day without the pain.

You have no idea, whoever you are reading this, the pain I experience daily. You can't imagine this pain until you've experienced it, and oh, I would never wish this excruciating hell on anyone. Ever since Dumbledore's visit—I forgot to write about that, didn't I? There's much I don't write here. I don't write about my parents, the full moons, or my job search. They're not important enough to write about here, though.

Actually, that's utterly inaccurate. Of bloody _course_ they're important enough—they're my life now. They're all I have. Just, they _are _my life. I get enough of them during my days. Nothing's wrong with my parents, so I don't need to talk about them, and my parents ask about the other two more than I care to talk about them.

Since it's been a few months since Halloween, it's like everyone decided, Oi, your time's up; you got a two-month period to grieve and now you just have to suck it up and get over it like everyone else did.

I'm literally the last person alive who loved them, so no bloody wonder everyone else has already accepted it.

Those people and things above are my life, of which James and Lily, Peter, and Sirius are not a part—according to everyone else. However, there's no way for me to live without them, even now. When a person dies, he's not erased from history. After his funeral, it's not "out of sight, out of mind." He isn't remembered only on his death day and birthday.

No, he is remembered and missed and mourned and thanked and loved, still.

Dumbledore visited me after the full moon on the ninth. Seeing that man in my fireplace should have had me running the other direction, but alas, I trust too much.

"To you, Remus, Sirius is innocent. Correct?"

He called me out on my fantasy. (Not the one I encouraged yesterday in a fit of desperation and a lapse of sanity.) He realized I was handling the grief all too easily—he must be talking to my parents—and, being the brilliant man he is, jumped to the conclusion that I'd deluded myself.

That day Dumbledore came to convince me of Sirius's guilt, and he left with the image of a broken man fresh in his mind. That's what I've been since.

I'm just a broken, bitter man, betrayed by one of those who taught me to trust and unintentionally abandoned by the others.

How do I escape this?

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><p><em>"One day you'll get sick of saying that <strong>everything's alright<strong>, and by then I'm sure I'll be pretending _just like I am tonight." _Cheers to you if you get the reference.  
><em>


	8. February 14th, 1982

_This is the eighth chapter of_ Property of Remus Lupin _and I hope you enjoy._

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><p><strong>February 14th, 1982<strong>

Today is Valentine's Day.

The day of love or lust and of pinks, reds, white, and hearts, the day Hogwarts hopes is on a Saturday so Madam Puddifoot's, its disgustingly fluffy atmosphere multiplied, is available to couples.

Today is the day, exactly ten years ago, that James tried to make Lily jealous. The day, nine years ago, that she made him jealous. (Of course, her motives then had naught to do with James.) The day, eight years ago and seven years ago, he tried to get her to say yes. The day, six years ago, she hexed him before he had the chance to ask. The day, five years ago, she wondered why he didn't. The day four years ago he said yes to her.

Three years ago, Prongs rushed to perfect his plans for his new wife. Two years, she had morning sickness.

One year, Sirius was going to babysit (Sirius the-ladies-man Black babysitting on Valentine's Day), so Lily asked me and Peter to prevent him from burning down the house. (In the beginning I had to endure Sirius's exasperation. "Who's the girl, Moony? Don't tell me you don't have a _date_, Moony, it's _Valentine's_, for Merlin's sake! Come on, Moony, when are you going to finally get the balls to ask out a nice witch?")

Today.

Today is the day of "I love you" and memories of the love between teenagers and the love between adults and the love between children and the love between friends. When echoes of the nervous, the comfortable, the ecstatic, the inexperienced, and the lonely sing their disjointed song.

"I love you" is such a complicated statement, capable of fitting itself into any situation. It can be a promise or an explanation or an excuse. It can also be a ritual—"Goodnight, son, I love you." A habit or a rare occasion. Underused, direly needed, startling, a cure to some unspoken pain, a joyous surprise, a dreaded expectation. Completely depending on its intonation, the response to it can range to almost mystifying lengths: bliss, sadness, anger, bitterness, satisfaction, relief, comfort, doubt.

Never, ever, should it be… empty.

I feel

**empty**.

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><p><em>Inspiration: the following passage from <em>Forever _by Maggie Stiefvater: "The room went dark and, after a moment, Grace whispered that she loved me, sounding a little sad. I wrapped my arms tightly around her shoulders, sorry that loving me was such a complicated thing."_


	9. March 4th, 1982

_This is the ninth chapter of_ Property of Remus Lupin _and I hope you enjoy._

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><p><strong>March 4th, 1982<strong>

I can't hear him anymore.

Why can't I hear him anymore?

All of them—I can't hear them anymore.

I don't remember how "Moony" sounds. I don't remember how Padfoot and Prongs and Wormtail could sound. I don't remember if James and Sirius blushed or blanched or just rolled their eyes to cover up embarrassment. I don't remember if Peter squeaked as a person or just as a rat. I don't remember the taste of Lily's cooking. I don't remember how small Harry's hands and feet are or how soft his skin is.

Why didn't I get a pensieve? Why didn't I start stowing memories?

How could I not know?

I am the only one left who should know.

**Why can't I remember?**


	10. March 10th, 1982

_This is the tenth chapter of_ Property of Remus Lupin _and I hope you enjoy_.

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><p><strong>March 10th, 1982<strong>

Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me . . .

Mum is making me dinner tonight. She told me to invite someone, but I don't know whom would accept. No way am I inviting Dumbledore—he doesn't need any more information about me in his head.

Why can't he just forget me? Why can't they all just forget me? Send me to my family, if only in your minds.

Send me to my family in reality if you're willing.

. . .

Maybe I'll ask Hagrid.


	11. March 11th, 1982

_This is the eleventh chapter of_ Property of Remus Lupin _and I hope you enjoy._

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><p><strong>March 11th, 1982<strong>

Dad's spending every penny on a cure for lycanthropy.

I tried to tell him not to waste his time and money, that that's the least of my worries. He didn't listen.

He thinks that if he helps me in one aspect of my life, it will have a ripple effect and I'll be happy again.

Without the Marauders, I've never been happy.

Ever.


	12. March 27th, 1982

_This is the twelfth chapter of _Property of Remus Lupin _and I hope you enjoy_.

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><p><strong>March 27th, 1982<strong>

Happy birthday, James. I miss you, mate. Nothing notable occurred today.

Nothing, of course, except that I laughed.

Blimey, we used to laugh all the time. Now laughing is a notable event.

That's my gift to you, Prongs: laughter.


	13. April 18th, 1982

_This is the thirteenth chapter of_ Property of Remus Lupin _and I hope you enjoy._

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><p><strong>April 18th, 1982<strong>

Since my birthday, Hagrid's been keeping in touch.

The man's always been too gentle to do anything requiring bluntness or brutality. With me, he has no idea what to do. I actually feel rather bad for the man . . .

He's also too stubborn to give up when he thinks someone needs help.

I don't want to waste his time—he can't help me.

No one can.

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><p><em>If you shouted, "YOU CAN, NITWIT," I approve.<em>


	14. May 26th, 1982

_This is the fourteenth chapter of _Property of Remus Lupin _and I hope you enjoy_.

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><p><strong>May 26th, 1982<strong>

I keep thinking, Who is this? Who are you? Why do you have my face?

Why are your eyes dead?

I think this and I think this, day after day, and each time a voice in my head whispers,

This is you now, Remus. Enjoy.

Now that I think about it, to whom am I comparing the person in the mirror? Who is really the person who smiles more? Who is really the voice of reason?

Answer: the boy I used to be.


	15. August 2nd, 1982

_Hopefully this makes up for the month-long delay._

_This is in support of all the depressed and suicidal out there. Listen to me: **it gets better.** I know it doesn't seem like that, and I know life's hard, but the ultimate display of _cowardice_ is killing oneself to avoid pain.__ What I want you to do is try to make someone happy. Every day, try to get someone to smile their _**real**_ smile, the one that's vulnerable and joyous and beautiful. Note how much better you feel if you make someone happy. Also, if you try making the same person happy daily, he or she will realize just how **amazing, spectacular, kind, caring, and beautiful **you are._

_Also, if you're young (and I'm talking under sixty-five-years-old here), do not end your life before you even get the chance to live it._

It

**gets**

**_better._**

_This is the fifteenth chapter of _Property of Remus Lupin _and I hope you enjoy._**  
><strong>

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><p><strong>August 2<strong>**nd****, 1982**

It's dark outside.

The moon is visible tonight, unusually enough. In two days it will be full, and it will put me through hell once again.

For the last time.

Which would be more fitting—to die as a human or as a wolf?

I haven't thought that far ahead, but I'm sure that's the lesser issue until I figure out how.

I could always confront a "former" Death Eater. "Oi, meat-for-brains! I'm the uncle of the boy who defeated your joke of a master. Oh, and look! I'm unarmed." That would do the trick, but it would most likely be quite painful. Death Eaters definitely aren't as fluffy and gentle as a baby owl, you know.

If I were to attack myself during the full moon, my parents would have to deal with the blood. It might be the easiest way, though; I'll be going through the intense pain of transforming anyway.

Perhaps the best way would be to take poison after the full moon while recovering; everyone would assume my death was simply from the trauma of the transformation, and my parents may accept it as only that.

I don't want them to think I did this because of them—this isn't their fault. To ensure this, I won't leave a note. This journal will be charmed shut and hidden in Diagon Alley by then, so they won't be able to find it. No one knows of its existence, so no one will be looking for it.

I believe I've covered everything… All of my belongings will go to my parents, of course, and I'm fine with that. My mum will give anything to Hagrid or Dumbledore that she thinks I would want them to have. Of course, nothing matters much to me at this point, but if I own anything they want, they'll be able to obtain it somehow.

If Lily, James, and Peter were alive, this wouldn't be happening. If Sirius were himself, out of Azkaban, gallivanting about hitting on witches, I wouldn't be writing this. Merlin, if the Marauders were together again, I'd never hear the end of it—first for writing in a diary, and second for planning this. They'll be angry with me when I see them on the other side. I can deal with their anger, though; what I can't deal with is this bleak, cold life.

Afterlife with my best friends or life with no one: isn't the answer obvious?

Now, I must thank this book. You have been my only comfort in this distressing, drawn-out, unhappy ordeal. You have not judged me as all else have. You have simply listened, and for that, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. This will be my last entry.

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><p><em>Talk to someone. If you're still in school, go to the counselor's office. I promise, they are happy to help you: it's why they took the job. If you aren't in school, talk to your mom, your dad, your sister, your brother, your aunt, uncle, grandpa, cousin, your coworker, your best friend. Call up your best friend from college. Talk to your neighbor. The first step to getting better is talking to someone. Actually, scratch that. The first step is getting someone to understand; the first step to someone understanding is telling them what's going on. You may want to think about using the statement, "I'm not feeling so well... Do you have any advice?" If the person responds, "Go to the doctor," without even asking what's wrong, tell them thanks and try someone else. Or, follow their advice and go to a doctor. Doctors are in the profession to save lives: yours is absolutely no exception. <em>

_**Your life is valuable, no matter what anyone else says.** Don't give it up. It is well within your power to become a better person: you just have to try.  
><em>

_God loves you, even if you reject Him. He will forgive you and love you forever._

****Last week was National Suicide Prevention week.** Did you know an American teenager commits suicide every two hours?** Do your friends and family know you love them? Do the people close to you know that you never want to _consider_ living without them, let alone actually try to do it?****

**Human life is precious and fragile. Don't treat it as anything less.**


	16. August 6th, 1982

_This is the sixteenth chapter of_ Property of Remus Lupin _and I hope you enjoy._

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><p><strong>August 6th, 1982<strong>

Bezoars: the flaw in the plan.

What were the chances that my father could recognize poisoning and own a bezoar?

Honestly! It didn't occur to me that my parents had any sort of Healer training—Dad has a desk job at the Ministry and Mum is a shopkeeper! Why on earth does Dad know the signs of poison?

Now, one day later, I'm sitting in the psychiatric ward of St. Mungo's. I haven't had a chance to retrieve my journal from its hiding place in Diagon Alley, but my therapist (recently assigned) ordered me to write—"about anything you want, Remus." She handed me a quill and parchment, and then she left me here.

(Mildly condescending comment: why would you leave a depressed man alone right after his recent suicide attempt?)

Mum was hysterical when we reached the hospital yesterday. From what little I remember directly after the poisoning, the majority is Mum's sobbing. I don't yet know why they think I did it, but obviously they know that I purposefully tried to poison myself.

Which brings me back to the question: why does Dad know the signs of poisoning? It would have worked, too, had he not had the blasted bezoar handy.

(It's been half an hour since the therapist witch left, and no one's come to check on me. The vigilance in this ward needs serious improvements…)

I've been stuck in this hospital for less than twenty-four hours and I already feel the desperate need to leave… Yesterday was blood work, tests, and countless "suggestions" of "You need your rest, Remus," and, "Why don't you relax, Remus?" (Yes, I just failed at committing suicide. I'm the most relaxed man in the world.) My parents weren't allowed to see me as a result of the endless spells and healing charms and paperwork and rest. Honestly, if they fed me to a Death Eater right now, I'd be happier than I am sitting here.

Finally. I hear people talking outside my room… Finally, time for some sort of interaction.

Seriously, they'll leave a suicidal person alone this long? What's wrong with them?


	17. Still August 6th, 1982

_This is the seventeenth chapter of_ Property of Remus Lupin and I hope you enjoy.

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><p><strong>August 6th, 1982<strong>

False alarm. The footsteps and voices belonged only to a doctor apparently talking to himself. He came to check my vitals.

Thanks for getting my hopes up, doc.

Anyway, he also suggested I talk out my feelings. Of course, he then immediately declared he had other patients to see. Shoving a roll of parchment and a quill in my face, he scurried out of the room more quickly than a goblin chasing his gold.

They want me to write? Fine. I'll write.

I hate myself.

There. I said it.

I hate myself with every fiber of my being. I hate that I'm a hazard to everyone around me and that my loved ones constantly worry about me for my lycanthropy. I loathe that I am always inconveniencing someone, always requiring help or attention, always needing something. I hate that my best friends broke the law to try to help pathetic, weak me.

I hate that they're dead. I hate that I know—I **know** it's my fault they died. I loathe that I was—am too much of a coward. That if I'd simply told James my doubts, he'd still be alive.

I hate that I failed. What's a word stronger than hate? Whatever it is, that is what I feel towards the fact that I failed. I can't even manage my own death right, and millions of people do that properly. Not me, apparently. Can't even seem to die. What a nuisance.

No. I'm not alright. Nor will a nice long talk about feelings make me that way.


	18. August 7th, 1982

_Good news: this fic should be finished, or close to it, by August 13th, 2012. I think._

_This is the eighteenth chapter of _Property of Remus Lupin_, and I hope you enjoy._

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><p><strong>August 7th, 1982<strong>

This isn't how life is meant to be. We're meant to grow, make friends, meet a nice girl, settle down, have a family, age, and then die.

We're not supposed to lose our mates. We're not meant to be utterly alone. We're not meant to be creatures of nightmare.

How am I meant to be like this? No one needs me here. There is literally nothing I can do now—no one, good, bad, or otherwise, will hire me since I'm a lycanthrope. I have no one in my life who needs my guidance. There is no way for me to make a difference. This world doesn't need me. It has no use for me. It's neglected me and caused me to inconvenience or destroy everyone and everything I've ever loved.

I don't belong here.


	19. August 8th, 1982

_This is the nineteenth chapter of _Property of Remus Lupin_, and I hope you enjoy._

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><p><strong>August 8<strong>**th****, 1982**

There are different kinds of regret.

There's the guilt you push out of your mind, reasoning that someday soon you'll make things right. Then there's pure, complete, unchangeable regret. "What if I'd done this? Would they still be alive? Would it have made a difference?" and "I missed my chance."

For the major mistakes in life, you feel it immediately. You know from that instant that you need to fix it, somehow, but most often, you put it off. You say it's not the right time, you reason that you misjudged things and that there was no problem in the first place, and you continue your life, unchanged.

And then they die. And you realize you never fixed it. You chickened out on every chance you had and you never made things right with them—and now you never can. They will never forgive you. There's no way to make up for it.

You simply have to live with it. Live with all the things you did and didn't do. Live with what you said, what you thought, and what you thought you'd never end up doing.

They die, and you have to learn how to live with yourself.


	20. August 9th, 1982

_This is the twentieth chapter_ _of _Property of Remus Lupin _and I hope you enjoy._

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><p><strong>August 9<strong>**th****, 1982**

Death is a scheming foe. He knows he will always win eventually, so he tries to screw with your head.

He takes your loved ones. They die, and now you have to learn how to live. You've been living without a hitch for yours, decades, your whole life, and suddenly—you have to remember how to breathe. You have to figure out how to walk, how to talk, what to say. Everything that came naturally before is foreign. It feels like you don't belong. It feels almost as if you should be dead too—because life doesn't feel real. It's dreamlike, empty. You wonder if dying isn't really just waking up from the twisted dream called reality.

Death is powerful. He wants his fun, playing with our human sanity, and we are so weak in comparison that we fall to it.


	21. December 28th, 1982

_This is the twenty-first chapter of _Property of Remus Lupin _and I hope you enjoy._

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><p><strong>December 28<strong>**th****, 1982**

I did not stop writing by choice.

Hopping hippogriffs, it's like I'm back in school, preparing for my OWLs or NEWTs or something! Endless work. If it's not therapy ("Tell me, Remus, how does that make you feel?"), it's crafts. If it's not crafts ("To prove you can do something good, you are useful"), it's exercise. If it's not exercise ("Must stay fit, Lupin!"), it's some class or another—cooking, goblin history, Muggle economics—all to "keep the mind young."

This is mad.


	22. December 31st, 1982  January 1st, 1983

_This is the twenty-second chapter of _Property of Remus Lupin _and I hope you enjoy._**  
><strong>

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><p><strong>December 31<strong>**st****, 1982 / January 1****st****, 1983**

It's on the edge right now. Now is the moment, similar to the line between night and day, but more drastic, more monumental. This moment is the point between two years, the defining time of future meeting past right smack in the present.

New Years… depresses me. "Oi, look what you didn't do, Remus. Look what you wanted to do but didn't. Look at all these thick, plentiful, colorful regrets." Everything about this transition haunts me—especially so since I am alone in this hospital. I don't have Padfoot and Prongs to get drunk and cheer me up with their complete foolishness.

What will this year bring? Nineteen eighty three. Another challenge to face…

Living.


	23. January 4th, 1983

_Regarding "all that jazz"... we'll just say that Remus liked to watch Chicago in his spare time. Moving on._

_This is the twenty-third chapter of _Property of Remus Lupin_ and I hope you enjoy._

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><p><strong>January 4<strong>**th****, 1983**

Merlin. Help. Me.

A few months ago, I thought I had my life had reached its lowest point. Best friends dead, nobody loved me, danger to society, all that jazz. But now? I find myself in the darkest depths of hell.

Honestly, I can't decide if the doctors' strategy is to bore us so much that we never want to return to the psychiatric ward—meaning we choose either to live or not to fail at suicide a second time—or if it's simply to save us the trouble of trying again.

Prongs, Wormtail, please send me some bloody entertainment.


	24. January 7th, 1983

_This is the twenty-fourth chapter_ _of _Property of Remus Lupin _and I hope you enjoy._

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><p><strong>January 7<strong>**th****, 1983**

My life changed for good in one night. No going back. No redoes. Only memories. Hopes. Pain.

It's a unique feeling, watching everything change, seeing it happen. Most life-altering changes are gradual, such as maturing, a war ending, or breaking off a relationship—it takes time to get to the point of no return, when you no longer mock those who suck at Quidditch, when there's no chance for one side to win no matter how many successful battles they have, when you no longer love the girl. The other momentous occasions affect everyone, all at once—earthquakes, fires, Death Eater riots, battles. You aren't the only one watching the world fall apart. This, however, this one night changed everything.

What makes it worse is that that night means something entirely different for every other witch and wizard: relief. Joy. Victory. For me it was betrayal, heartbreak, and grief. Everyone else in the Wizarding World won, but I lost. While I mourned, they celebrated. My pain was an insult to them—how dare I wish it hadn't happened? How dare I wish Lily and James were alive, and by correlation, that the war continued? Yes, yes, theirs was a "heavy sacrifice," but then—it's a war. Everyone makes sacrifices in wartime.

Their lives changed for the better whilst mine spiraled out of my control. My best friends died to protect their son, to protect the only chance we had of defeating "the Dark Lord." Everyone else could hardly be bothered to shed a few tears for that, hm?

On October 31st, 1981, I went to bed with everything anyone dreams of—four amazing friends, a life, and a purpose. I woke up with nothing—three friends dead, one a traitor, the purpose fulfilled, and a wrecked shamble of my previous existence.

It only took one night.


	25. January 15th, 1983

_Oh, it's such a good pun. Can you find it?_

_This is the twenty-fifth chapter_ _of _Property of Remus Lupin_ and I hope you enjoy._

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><p><strong>January 15<strong>**th****, 1983**

Peter. Oh, Peter… Last year I didn't even acknowledge your birthday in here… Any reason I told you would just sound like excuses. I can only tell you how deeply sorry I am for refusing to think about it, to think about you. I've barely thought about you at all since the last time I saw you. I'm so sorry, mate… You and I, we were the lesser two, in Sirius and James' shadow, toughing it out through their idiotic plans. We were definitely close enough to warrant you my grief, but… it's been too hard to try. Letting all of four of you get to me at once, it's entirely too much. I couldn't handle thinking of you, Peter, because you shouldn't have died. After all these years, you finally stood up to Sirius when he needed standing up to, and he killed you for it.

Sirius killed you. And I could have stopped him, stopped all of it from happening, if I'd spoken up. I had the strongest feeling that he was the rat amongst us, but I didn't want to believe it. How could I have believed that? That this man we trusted so much, this man who was our brother more than our friend, could betray us like that? I suppose blood **is** thicker than water.

Anyway, Wormtail… happy birthday. I miss you, mate, and I am sorry beyond words for being responsible for your death. Please, please forgive me.


	26. January 16th, 1983

_Some days, all you can think to do is cry, and it feels as if you may never stop._

_This is the twenty-sixth chapter of _Property of Remus Lupin _and I hope you enjoy._

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><p><strong>January 16<strong>**th****, 1983**

In the midst of utter despair, there can be joyous days. In a charmed life, there can be sorrow. One scenario is privileged a saving grace, those rare moments of sunshine, and the other is burdened by reality.

My life is far from charmed. I am a werewolf, which means that on top of the excruciating pain of monthly transformations, no one will employ me and friends are hard to find. I lived through the Great Wizarding War. My best and only friends did not survive. My parents are forced to support me financially when they can hardly support themselves. My parents' eyes are tired and scared and linger on me far longer than they should have to. Because of the St. Mungo's bill from my recent suicide attempt, today I am moving into my childhood home and selling my flat for good—the flat that Peter and I shared. The flat where I first learned of my true and final solitude, forced by the death and betrayal of my friends. The flat where Harry said his first word, "dada," when Sirius tackled James to the ground and caused a dreadful commotion. We almost didn't hear the boy calling out for his dad to make sure he was okay, but Lily has a mother's ear.

Merlin's ghost, I just wrote "Lily has." Present tense.

I miss them more than anything. It's an ever-present ache, a gaping hole. I've heard that, just as dark is the absence of light and cold is the absence of heat, death is the absence of life. Death is not a tangible object, nor even a concept. Death is an absence. And that's exactly how it feels—the absence of something crucially vital, something I cannot live without. But I have to.

It used to be that, when I had the idiots James and Sirius by my side, something inhumane would make me angry. Righteous indignation would rise up in me and take control, and that would fuel my will to fight. And my will to fight was my will to live. The news of dead Muggle-borns and Muggles invoked a strong negative reaction and would have all of us muttering and glancing at each other, simultaneously forming the exact same plans in our heads without even saying a word. We made the best team.

Now that same gut feeling of "wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong" is always present. There isn't a moment when my very being feels unnatural, as if I am trying to breathe without air or eat without putting anything in my mouth. Life without James, Lily, Sirius, and Peter feels unnatural and so very wrong, and instead of getting angry or making plans, now all I feel like doing is crying. I want to curl into a ball and sob. When I am a wolf, I howl at the moon, make terrible noises of an animal in pain, and that has been the only consolation, the nearest resemblance of okay-ness, in a very, very long time.


	27. January 20th, 1983

_We believe I now have carpal tunnel in my right wrist. I'm right-handed. Hurrah._

_This is chapter twenty-seven of _Property of Remus Lupin _and I hope you enjoy._

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><p><strong>January 20th, 1983<strong>

I'm trying so hard.

What's difficult about having revelations–suicide is wrong, depression is pointless, goblins aren't greedy, et cetera–is actually acting on them. For so many years, practically my whole life, my brain has been at war with my heart. I felt worthless and subhuman because of my lycanthropy even though I realized that such sentiments were irrational. I could hear my parents tell me I was still their little boy despite this horrible condition. In my mind I knew they were right, but in the pit of my stomach were poisonous doubts and vicious lies. No amount of rationalization or reason could banish them. Meeting the Marauders helped–people my own age, people not related to me by blood, actually enjoyed my company. Remembering how my former playmates despised me when I became a werewolf, I kept my disease secret from my new classmates, desperate for their acceptance. For the first time since Greyback ruined me, I felt like a human. I didn't realize until they did find out that the true mark of friendship is trust; I should have trusted them to learn my secret and not fear me because of it. They still accepted me, and finally, I could feel normal.

I was still a freak. A monster. I still knew it, and occasionally I still felt it, but having Padfoot and Prongs and Wormtail made it so much less important. A side fact instead of a definition.

Now I wrestle with my pain. I've realized just how wrong I was to think I wouldn't be missed, to believe I had no use. If anything, I can help my parents. My struggle has never been just mine. I know they too have always felt guilty for my lycanthropy. Until now, it didn't occur to me that maybe I could help relieve that guilt.

It's a new purpose, at least. In any case, believing it and feeling it are extremely different things. I still find myself thinking darkly, longing to off myself, to jump into the Thames, to sleep and never wake up. I just want an escape, but no option has yet made itself known to me. I am frustrated beyond belief, adding to the general feeling of I can't do this anymore somebody help let me be free.

**I need to be free.**


End file.
